


A Sensible Arrangement

by Afalstein



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 22:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19733338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afalstein/pseuds/Afalstein
Summary: When the fiercely independent Queen of the North sends for the King's Hand to meet her at the Crossroad's Inn in the summer, Tyrion assumes it is a matter of state.  The Queen instead puts forward a request as logical as it is surprising.  Both Tyrion and Sansa are far too wise to attach much meaning to a relationship, of course, but it's not without its uses.





	A Sensible Arrangement

“Have you given thought to marriage, my Lord?”

Tyron choked momentarily on his wine. Coughing, he took a moment to properly swallow it. “You are very direct, your highness.” He said.

When Queen Sansa had asked to meet with him, Tyrion had assured himself that it was a perfectly sensible request. Trade negotiations were far past the point where they should be updated; the King could hardly be expected to travel much, and he was the only representative with enough authority to meet especially with the queen and swiftly negotiate terms. Perfectly logical, not in any way untoward, and no reason for him to feel conflicted.

Requesting to meet him at the Crossroads Inn had puzzled him. To be sure, it was a fine establishment, kings and queens had sheltered there before, and convenient for being an approximate midway point between South and North, but the new Queen was not known for her fondness for going south. The Crossroads Inn especially likely held unpleasant memories for her. He couldn’t say his own memories of the place were terribly fond either.

But after all, those were emotional considerations. A trade negotiation at the Crossroads Inn was, on the whole, also a sensible arrangement.

Which is perhaps why he was so dumbfounded as he stared at the red-headed queen, who sat on the other side of the small table in her chambers.

The queen’s somber face twitched in something like a smile. “I have little patience for idle chatter at the best of times.” She said, sipping from her wine. “You are a sensible man, though, and will not take offense to direct speech. Have you given thought to it?”

“Not particularly.” Tyrion said. “I have few holdings, I am technically a condemned criminal, and besides, marriage would materially limit my… amusements.”

“I’m sure.” He heard a dry tone to her voice, and wondered if she was thinking of their own marriage. _That_ marriage had not greatly limited his hobbies, though he flattered himself that his wife had taken no offense at the time. The queen set down her mug and began to carve her dinner “Do you not regret, then, that the Lannister line will end with you?”

“Again, not particularly.” He answered. He took a dark sort of triumph in it—a revenge on his father from beyond the grave. “Your highness, in the spirit of direct speech, may I ask whence comes this sudden curiosity in my marital affairs?”

She looked away, almost as if she were embarrassed. “My brother, as you know, will never have children.” She said. “My other brother is vanished into the far north, and my only sister into the far west.” She sighed. “But there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

“A dilemma, to be sure, your highness.” He answered. He weighed his next words carefully. “I take it you also do not find marriage an… attractive option.”

Sansa got up and moved to the window. “No.” She said. “The Lords of the North are willing, of course, and have been more than helpful in suggesting various marriage alliances, but I find myself incapable of even… _contemplating_ the idea with any….” A pause. “It is… marriage is such a vulnerable thing.” She said, playing with her hands. “Risking it again is… not a pleasant thought.”

Against his better judgment, Tyrion spoke. “If you will forgive my presumption, your highness… Marriage is not necessary to secure succession. As we both know, even a bastard can inherit a throne.”

“Even that is… fearful for me to think of.” She said, turning around. He thought he saw a light shiver. “It seems even I have certain things I will not brave for my people.”

“I see.” Perfectly understandable, given her history. He hesitated. “Your highness, I fail to see what this has to do with me.”

She made her way back to her seat without responding, and took a drink of wine. She picked up her knife and seemed about to resume eating. “It is the risk, you see.” She said, putting it down, suddenly. “The risk of how a man, any man, might change in the dark of the night. Even my closest friend might become an utter monster behind closed doors; I have no way of being sure, of truly trusting anyone in that… office.” Slowly, she looked up at him. “Any one I do not already know… as a husband.”

Tyrion was fortunately not drinking wine this time, but the flagon was in his hand, so he set it down, very carefully and deliberately. “Are… you suggesting we renew our marriage, your highness?”

“Not… as such.” She said. “You are, after all, Hand of the King. A formal… arrangement would seriously limit the independence of the North.” There was a small smile. “You could, I suppose, ask to be released from the King’s service to live at Winterfell, but I suspect you would not wish to.”

“No.” Tyrion admitted. He liked being Hand of the King—he liked ruling. And all else aside, he did not like the North. There was no attraction in being King over it.

“But…” she leaned over the table. “something more… informal, perhaps…”

Tyrion sat back. “In the spirit of direct speech, your highness.” He said. “I wish to be sure I have not misunderstood. You are suggesting we fuck in the interests of producing a bastard.”

“Technically not even a bastard.” She shrugged. “Our marriage was not even formally annulled, and could easily be renewed with a simple piece of paper. I have discussed it with the septon.”

“Doesn’t that have the same problems with the North’s independence?” Tyrion asked.

“Not if the marriage is secret.” Sansa said. “Speaking for ourselves personally… well, I certainly have experienced enough marriage to find it devoid of any compromising sentimentality.”

Well, that was sensible, if not very flattering.

“Do you have any objections?” She asked.

Tyrion looked up at the queen—the womanly, beautiful queen.

“None whatsoever.” He said.

* * *

She was, of course, technically using him, but Tyrion didn’t really mind being ‘used,’ at least not like this. A traditional marriage, as he had said, would materially limit his entertainment. And, he admitted, there was definitely flattery in being chosen for such a use—a flattery of a sort he was wholly unused to.

Sansa sensibly suggested there was no time like the present, and shortly after renewing vows with the septon, they returned to her chambers and consummated the arrangement. Tyrion hardly needed to point out the next day that a child was extremely unlikely to be conceived the first time around, and so they did the same that night. And the night after.

“Tell me.” Sansa said, one night, as they were lying side-by-side. “Why did you never marry on your own? As the last Lannister, you must have had suitors.”

“Oh, certainly.” A few had even not run away screaming. “It is hard to take such people seriously, they are so many of them morons. And there is nothing more tedious than living with a moron.”

“Indeed.” He heard the thick scorn in her voice.

He turned over to look at her. “Was that another difficulty in marrying?” He said. “You are unfair; I fear there are few men who could match wits with you.”

“Oh? And what of yourself, Clever Man?”

He smiled.

* * *

There was an entire week allotted for the “arrangement,” and they made the most of it. When he returned to Kings’ Landing, Tyrion returned to business, but kept an eye on reports from the North. But there was nothing about a child.

It was in the summer, when Bran summoned him. “I will not be requiring your services these next few weeks.” He declared. “If you have business you’ve kept waiting at Casterly Rock or elsewhere, go and attend to that.”

Tyrion did not understand, until he returned to his quarters. 

“A raven has arrived from Winterfell, your grace.” Said his footman, handing him a sealed message.

Tyrion read it, and suddenly understood too well.

* * *

“Bran knows.” He said to Sansa on their first night.

“Of course he knows.” She said, brushing the tangled hair out of her eyes. “I don’t like the idea, but I’ve come to accept that he could watch every private moment if he so chose. He probably watches you in the brothel every night.”

“You flatter me, your highness.” He said. “But I fear you have a somewhat exaggerated opinion of my stamina.”

She gave a dry chuckle—perhaps the first laugh he’d ever heard from her in all the years he’d known her. “It’s hardly opinion. I was here last year, remember?”

* * *

Again they went their separate ways at the end of the week, again the ravens were silent, and again they renewed the arrangement the next year. It was almost beginning to seem routine, until a raven came from Winterfell.

_The Queen is with child._

Bran sent for him in the spring. “Certain aspects of our trade agreement with the North are no longer satisfactory.” He observed, in his bland, monotone voice. “I need you to go to Winterfell and re-negotiate the treaty.”

Tyrion glared at him, but he went anyway.

* * *

Eddard Stark (The Queen adopted the child almost as soon as she was fit to sign the document) was a beautiful child with reddish curls and, Tyrion was relieved to see, perfectly strong legs. The Queen’s Hand protested that the Queen could not conduct trade negotiations in her state, but Sansa insisted.

“Would you like to hold him?” She asked him, as they were privately conferencing over the matter of grain taxes.

Tyrion accepted the child. It wrinkled its nose and yawned up at him.

Leaving for the South had never been so difficult before.

* * *

Tyrion was not surprised when no raven came that summer. The affair had been logical, he reflected, but it had fulfilled its purpose admirably. The legacy of the North was assured.

Which is why he was distinctly puzzled when a new raven came the following year, asking for him again at the Crossroads.

“Children are frail things.” Sansa explained to him when they met at the Inn. “And this is a dangerous world. I alone am responsible for the Stark legacy…” she took Eddard from her breast and covered herself up, “…I cannot pin all the North’s hopes on the survival of one child.”

“That seems sensible.” Tyrion agreed.

* * *

The next child was a daughter, Catelyn Stark. Then Robb. Then Lyanna.

“Y’realize, everyone knows what’s going on.” Bronn said to Tyrion, as he prepared to journey for the birth of Jaime Stark (named for the loyal servant of the North, as a favor to the queen’s faithful bodyguard Brienne.)

“Fuck off.” Tyrion said, absentmindedly.

“You took all of last August off to see the birds at the Crossroads.” Bronn said. “Why don’t the two of you just admit yer fuckin’ each other?”

Tyrion turned to him. “Where would be the sense in that?”

* * *

“I understand my brother has relieved you of your position as King’s Hand.” Sansa said, years later, as children scampered around the table.

“Yes.” Tyrion nodded. “Pardoned, technically, it was always considered a punishment. But he says the realm is enough in order that he no longer needs my services.” It wasn’t unexpected, Tyrion realized, he was getting on in years and his understudy was more than capable of handling the various crises that were the realm’s daily entertainment. He was the last of the original small council, anyway, save Brienne, who would likely serve as Lord Commander until she died.

“I see.” Sansa nodded. “And where will you go, now that you are free?”

“I have no idea.” That was a lie.

Sansa played with her food a little. There were grey lines beginning to show in her once-bright red hair. “Well.” She said. “My lords have suggested that our arrangement is well known already... If you have no objections, it would be a simple matter to make the marriage public.” She looked up at him.

“That… seems sensible.” Tyrion nodded.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I like Tyrion and Sansa, but every fic I've read of them breaks my immersion with how OOC they invariably are with either Sansa or Tyrion (or both) pining after the other, swearing undying love and all the things they'd do. And that's just not the Sansa or the Tyrion we see. They're both cynical, worldly wise, and not prone to romance (anymore).
> 
> There's also the issue that while the finale leaves them in a place where each can more or less do as they like, it nonetheless makes it politically impossible for them to ever marry. But I finally hit on this idea, and I feel it's closer to how the two might potentially act in the series.


End file.
